Crossword
by sinking815
Summary: Sara Tancredi did not like not knowing the answers to everything.  She supposed it was a characteristic that made her a meticulous doctor and a diehard enemy of puzzles.  MiSa.  S1 oneshot.


_Crossword_  
_Sinking815_  
_June 28th, 2007_

_A/N: Just a short fic that wanted to tease my brain after I rewatched "And Then There Were 7". Sara made the comment to Michael, that their relationship was to return to strictly professional and that she wouldn't do him anymore favors. Which got me thinking, "What kinda favors?" Kinda fluffy, kinda angsty. Appreciate reviews!_

* * *

Sara Tancredi did not like not knowing the answers to everything. She supposed it was a characteristic that made her a meticulous doctor and a die-hard enemy of puzzles. So as she stared vengefully at the half-done _New York Times_ crossword, she was surprised she'd even bought the paper, let alone attempted the black-and-white squares. But Tuesdays at the Fox River infirmary moved slower than a barge through the Panama Canal and for once, the frustrating distraction was ironically welcome. 

Her pencil tapping a staccato beat against her wooden desk, Sara glanced restlessly into the hall, took stock of C.O. Rhimes picking dirt from beneath his fingernails, and then turned her attention to the clock. Her mood could be called agitated after she read the time.

"Ten minutes to one, Sara," she chastised herself. "Five minutes later than the last time you looked."

Sighing, she pressed her forehead to her clenched fist and focused on the incomplete crossword in front of her. As she continued the irregular rhythm of rubber eraser to oiled oak, she made a mental note of her impatience. What was she waiting for anyway?

The small font of some odd number of clues stared up at her, each throwing their own silent four or five word taunt to the stars. Hoping that something might make some sense, Sara decided to scan back through in painstaking order. Halfway down the "Across" list, a clue conspicuously caught her eye.

"Injectable treatment for diabetics," she read aloud, her eyes instinctively moving to count white blocks. "Seven letters."

The groan she let out, once the answer came to mind, was loud enough to attract Rhimes' attention in the hallway. She smiled at his supposedly understanding nod, though she really had no idea what thought he was thinking himself, and adjusted the pencil in her hand to fill out the answer. She froze when her mind almost instantaneously conjured up the image of Inmate 94941.

"_Who's my one o'clock?"_

"_Scofield."_

Sara dropped the pencil and twisted in her swivel chair to regard the clock another time. Her eyes tracked the snail-paced second hand, though her heart beat wildly in her chest. Was he really the reason she was antsy? Averting her gaze, she blinked rapidly, trying to clear her foggy brain, and stared hard at the elevator door. She frowned at the familiar tone that sounded just before the door slid open.

This is ridiculous, she thought, her voice sounding angry in her own head. Quickly, she ducked her head, adjusted her stethoscope, and gathered her clipboard and manila folders. Sara did not allow herself one glance hallward.

She hadn't realized she had taken her crossword with her until she pretended to busy herself with the appointment form as she walked into the adjacent exam room. Annoyed at her semi-inappropriate preoccupation, she dropped her clipboard onto the preparation table with a little more force than she'd meant. Wincing at her blatant tell, Sara quickly reached for a syringe and insulin vile, busying herself with anything else. It didn't matter; he'd read her like a book.

"Angry today," Michael noted, his voice light as if he was content. He paused, scanned the room with his intense blue eyes, finally letting his gaze rest on her hands. "I don't see any flowers."

Try as she might, her lips turned up in the smallest of smiles and Sara Tancredi cursed at his ability to get under her skin.

"Not angry," she replied, dabbing some cotton with iodine and dropping it in her tray. "Just frustrated."

He nodded and grinned. "May I ask why?"

Sara paused, her eyes momentarily finding the infirmary window before finally meeting his stare. There was a shine glazing over whatever horrors he kept locked away and she huffed softly, amused and totally taken with this charm act of his.

"If you must know, Michael, I can't seem to finish today's crossword," she said, her tone matching the flirtatious level of his. She gestured with a gloved hand towards the clipboard where the torn newspaper lay in plain view. "Arm, please."

He complied, his eyes wandering toward the puzzle, and offered, "Ahh, I see."

For a moment, he was quiet and motionless, but Sara could practically see the wheels turning in his head. She was completely enraptured by his level of concentration and almost didn't notice the way her fingers slowed in their task of rolling up his sleeve.

When he looked back up, she felt herself flush at the idea of having been caught staring. If he noticed her scrutiny, it didn't seem to faze him.

"Dr. Tancredi, I'm disappointed," he teased.

Checking the dosage on the syringe, she cocked her head to let him know she was listening. He barely flinched while she administered the insulin. Withdrawing the needle, she noticed the slight flow of blood and made a mental note to grab some gauze from the next room.

"Seven letter word for 'Injectable treatment for diabetics'."

Michael stared at her and Sara felt herself slipping into a trancelike state as she returned his compelling gaze. She almost panicked when he reached for the sharp with his right arm, an irrational part of her expecting him to stab her like the convict he was supposed to be.

He tapped it with a long finger and spoke his next words very slowly.

"I'll give you a clue."

She laughed, taking the syringe from him and plucking the exposed needle from its accomplice. The need for distance was a good excuse to dispose of the biohazard and she crossed the room with what she hoped were long casual strides.

"Do you do crosswords a lot?" she asked, genuinely intrigued at his interest.

He shrugged, averting his eyes to his folded hands. Sara wished he wouldn't do that. She was beginning to understand that body language meant he was uncomfortable with something.

"When I'm bored."

She nodded absently, though he continued to stare at his feet. The silence that began to leak into the room felt awkward and intrusive. Sara suddenly itched to move.

"Why don't you sit tight while I grab you a bandage for that arm?"

She spun on her heel and fled to the relative safety of the stock cabinet after she had received his acknowledgement. Her hands were uncharacteristically unsteady as she ruffled for a decent four-by-four and medical tape. Get a grip, she thought to herself, slamming the door shut and walking back towards the exam room. He's just being charming.

"All right, Mr. Scofield," she said, the infirmary door swinging closed behind her. As she walked, she pulled the sterile gauze from its package. Sara dared not to look at him while her hands were on his skin. She silently thanked her medical experience as she swiftly and effortlessly applied the bandage to his arm. "Leave this on for an hour or two and then you can take it off."

Firmly planting her hands on her hips, she made herself look at him and smiled.

"You're all done."

Michael stood slowly and stepped close to her. For a moment, he towered above her and Sara felt her knees weaken as she took in his full height. Strangely, the stance didn't intimidate her like it might have if it were anyone else.

"Thanks," he said softly, and strode by her, his fingers undoing his rolled sleeve.

Dazed, Sara watched his back retreat and stared at the elevator long after the door had closed. After a few seconds, she turned to gather up her equipment when her eye caught the crossword still splayed upward on the table. Except now, it was completely filled out.

Shocked, she studied the newspaper clipping and the typewriter capital letters that were so dissimilar from her own handwriting. Her mouth curved into that unwarranted smile as her eyes found a short phrase beneath the box of squares.

PENCIL : PESSIMIST.

Her smile widened as she continued clearing up.

* * *

"Scofield!" 

Michael groaned softly and sat up. That voice would haunt him for the rest of his life. His mattress coils creaked with protest, annoyed by his sudden motion.

"Yes, boss," he replied.

Bellick sneered at him from outside the metal bars that kept him locked inside this claustrophobic brick cell. The C.O. waved a newspaper about, as if he were the master teasing his dog for attention with a rawhide bone.

"You've got mail," Bellick said. He snickered and chucked the roll of paper at his ward.

Defensively, Michael caught more out of reaction than expectation and unfolded it carefully, knowing he was under the captain's suspicious inspection. He barely managed to contain the smile as his eyes fell across the entertainment section of the _New York Times_ and the Post-It Note attached to the upper right corner.

"Whatcha got?" Bellick leered. "Love letters from that wife of yours?"

Michael allowed himself the smirk and fixed the rotund man with a cool calm gaze that would infuriate him. "Maybe, boss."

Bellick rolled his eyes, snorted, and marched away.

Michael let his eyes read the note written in loopy block letters and grinned.

PENCIL : REALIST.

Finis


End file.
